


Once More, With Results

by Wolf_Of_Silver



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-30 00:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21419470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_Of_Silver/pseuds/Wolf_Of_Silver
Summary: If you want to skip to the part where they start referring to each other with the non-reincarnation names, go to Chapter 3.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to skip to the part where they start referring to each other with the non-reincarnation names, go to Chapter 3.

He sits in a room so familiar, all sad grey walls and tables long past their prime and badly stained whiteboards, even though it’s in an entirely different block than what he usually ends up in. It’s his last semester at community college (a space compromised of little more than carbon-copy rooms with different numbers stamped outside, he thinks), a feat he put off for so long, finally only attending at the constant nagging of his parents.

Or rather, his last semester finishing up gen eds before moving on to a state university to complete a degree. Of what, he doesn’t quite know yet, as has always been the case in his twenty-four years of existence.

It’s not that he lacks the drive to do anything, he has plenty of it, it’s just that he hasn’t been able to figure out _what_ to turn that drive towards. There was always something about it tickling at the back of his mind, lulled only in to momentary lapses of peace when he started working towards some new skill, refining it, and then that feeling would come back, sometimes stronger, sometimes more content, but always _there_.

It had lapsed the longest when he picked up a job working in a library; most of his time being spent re-shelving books and helping wayward patrons work their way around what services the library offered and that no, you can not check out more than twenty books at a time, there are rules in place for a reason. The pages the place usually hired were college students of the younger variety, but he had snapped up the opportunity as soon as it arose. In the moments in-between he would read, soaking up knowledge in a way that had felt so right, bringing him bounds closer to quelling that feeling for good.

But all good things had to come to an end, as the position could only be kept for a year, and he had faltered back to that constant nagging session, much as the sound of books slamming on the table near him jolts him back to the present.

Other students are now filtering in minutes before the class, a freshman level psych course that he hasn’t taken until now, is supposed to start. The professor, or adjunct, or whomever, still hasn’t shown up, and he voices his irritation by way of tapping his pencil against his notebook, the sound earning a look from the student beside him. He stops, aware that being rude when you don’t need to be doesn’t get you anywhere in life, and instead bounces his leg slowly, matching it to a song he heard once on the radio.

Finally, thirty seconds before the class is officially supposed to start, who he can only assume is teaching it comes in, setting up his things at the front table. He is an older man, thin wisps of grey hair poking out from beneath a very worn baseball cap.

The man introduces himself as Professor Schmidt, and seems to be about ready to launch right in to the usual spiel that professors always do on the first day of classes, when he’s interrupted by the door creaking open and a small body scurrying in, taking a seat nearest the front.

Schmidt glares for a moment before going right on in to that speech, saying something about how he won’t tolerate tardiness, excessive use of laptops or cell phones, or being excessively politically correct.

However, most of this is lost on him, as he’s far too focused on who came through the door. She’s short, that much is obvious, has red hair, and looks like he should know her from somewhere. Maybe he had gone past her a few times while on campus? It wasn’t a particularly large place, and if she had been there a few years, seeing her at some point was inevitable. But no, there it was again, that sensation that is far too present and practically a ringing in his ears.

He needs to remember something, but _what_ was the question.

The _what_ rings in his head for the duration of the class, increasing in volume every time he glances at the redhead. He resolves to try and talk to her after class, assuming his impatience with the situation doesn’t cause him to jump up on the table at any given second and shout “Hey you at the front, do I know you?”

So he resigns himself to vent his annoyances with doodles, completely ignoring anything that comes from the professor’s mouth.

The paper is filled with chicken scratch that faintly resembles ships like an alien might arrive in, but if you asked him he would say no, aliens aren’t real. If there was one thing, he was practical at this age, and had outgrown his childhood wonder at the unexplained nearly a decade ago. These were nothing more than boredom doodles, thank you very much.

A bell rings, and students gather their things, but he is off, long legs carrying him through the small crowd, his height helping him to keep track of the redhead.

Once outside the room he pauses. It’s never good fashion to go running off after someone and ask them a question so direct, but the feeling is yelling at him to go, follow her.

He does follow for a bit, eventually tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention.

What he’s not prepared for is when she whips around, fists brought up in a defensive position.

He steps back, not entirely sure what to do next. “Uh, hi. I’m in that psych class with you?”

She lowers her fists, realizing they’re still in a well populated area of campus, that it’s daylight, and that security cameras are a thing. “Sorry, force of habit. Can never be too careful. You were that tall guy in the back, yeah?”

He nods, glad to see he’s not about to be decked by someone. He extends his hand in a more formal greeting, and she takes it.

“Wolfe,” he says, his last name always sounding so wrong in a way he can’t quite fathom, but still better than his first name of Damian, which he always rejected being called.

“Kat,” she offers back, shaking his hand with a certain gravity behind it that said _I will deck you at the first chance I get it you pull another stunt like that_.

They pull their hands apart, milling awkwardly in the sidewalk, uncertain on how to proceed after such an unusual first encounter.

“So, about that homework, did you catch it?” asks Wolfe, the tendrils of embarrassment creeping up his face as soon as the words slipped from his mouth. He hadn’t been paying much attention, but he had been paying enough attention to know that there was none.

Kat arches an eyebrow, the rest of her face betraying that she will not be talking to this man again if she can help it. “There was none assigned…” she trails off, shuffling her cellphone in her hands, a look of quiet desperation flickering in her eyes.

“Thanks Kat. That’s uh, all I wanted to ask.” He steps to the left, ending their conversation on a sudden note, picking up the pace until he seems to be running, and maybe he is. It’s hard to tell what happens after moments of embarrassment like that, and lets himself be carried back to his car, forgoing the rest of his classes for that day.

He dreams that night, of a more mature and confident version of himself, answering “Anybody down here?” with “No one but the FBI’s most unwanted.”

In his dream, it’s Kat who steps through the door, but she’s slightly older too.


	2. Chapter 2

The five hours until that class meets again is the worst his life has ever been, he decides while staring at the ceiling in the small hours of the morning.

His mind is restless, now that he’s had time to calm down from whatever the hell that was after that first awkward introduction, and since his last work shift had ended the previous night. Filing papers for a law firm wasn’t much, and it was nothing like the library job, and it was better than dealing with suburban mothers who would scream to use their expired coupons on their whining brat’s burger.

He shudders at the thought of that ill-fated and short-lived job, and turns on his side, staring across the room to where a fish tank, dark for the night, sits. There is a steady but quiet gurgle from the filter, and he wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to be a fish, wholly unaware of the world around him and not having to deal with the recurring and spiraling thoughts that come with running up behind people and tapping them on their shoulder and having awkward encounters that lead to panic attacks, and, and…

As suddenly as it’s started he stops himself, taking even, measured breaths. He cannot afford to delve that deep in to that part of his brain, the one that constantly screams that something is wrong and if he’s not trying on working on fixing it then he will fail at life and those few days ago it had reared its ugly head, telling him that the redheaded woman was the most important piece to whatever fucked up puzzle this was and he had destroyed that chance in roping her in to it.

And so he lies in his bed, staring at a darkened fish tank, trying to regulate his breathing, when he swings himself out of it, striding over to the small couch he had begged his parents to let him have in there a decade ago and which he hasn’t bothered removing since.

It is far too worn, far too small for him, but he stretches out as best he can, settling in to the space carved by his body over ten years. He doesn’t fall asleep, exactly, but he can relax enough to feel somewhat less anxious about not screwing things up again, if he is so afforded a chance to talk to Kat again.

The drive to the college is quick, and he wastes no time in getting to the building where the psych classroom is, his thoughts halting for a moment when he sees Kat already there, sitting in the back, somewhat near where he was sitting on that first day.

There are no other students in the room, or the dickwad psych professor.

He walks forward, and his thoughts resume, now going in a far different direction than they had been going originally. He can’t say he’s expected her to be there already, and so he sits a few seats away, entirely uncertain on how to proceed.

There’s the telltale sign of a chair scraping against the floor, and a few seconds later Kat has taken up residence to his left, looking straight ahead. It would seem that neither of them knows how to go with this, and so they sit, the silence stretching before them, punctuated by the occasional student who seems to have taken Schmidt’s warning about not being late to heart.

By the time Schmidt walks in the room is full to the point neither of them want to talk, but they’d probably be told off by the professor for it anyways.

He starts the lesson promptly at eight, and diligently the pair starts taking notes, joining in the chorus of pens and pencils scratching against paper.

It takes a bit before he notices Kat’s subtle nudge against his arm, and Wolfe sees that she’s not taking notes, she’s writing notes to him.

_Against my better judgement, I’ve decided to give you a chance to redeem yourself._

He nods, hoping she caught that. It seems she did, as she starts writing out another note, a much simpler one this time – _After class?_

Wolfe nods again, that feeling that has plagued him for so long finally taking a different turn, one that buzzes eagerly with excitement, as though he’s finally taking a step in the right direction and not following false trails.

Time passes by in that way it does when waiting for some big moment to happen, but this big moment could not have been more of a flop if anyone had put any effort in to it.

They mill about by a grove of trees a bit away from the building, closer to where the one Kat informs him she has to go to in thirty minutes, lest she be late for class.

Wolfe mumbles something about not even knowing where the rest of his classes are (a touch of being too jaded despite only having been at the college for two years combined with flat out running off of campus on the first day makes for quite the fuck up), and Kat snorts.

“Haven’t you been going here for a bit?” she asks, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

“Some people stick out in a crowd. For some reason, you’re one of them.” She shrugs, having no further explanation for why. He makes a mental note of that, tucking it away to bring it up at a later date.

Seconds that lapse in to silence tick by; was making friends always this hard? After a few minutes, Kat takes out her phone, pulling up the space to add in a new contact, giving it to Wolfe for him to fill out on his own.

He does, handing Kat back her phone without much flourish. Satisfied, she slips it back in to her pocket. He takes out his phone, letting her do the same. Unlike hers, it’s a decade or so older.

“Never saw the need to upgrade when this still works perfectly fine,” he offers as she hits the keyboard. She finishes, snapping the phone shut along the way.

“I do miss that sound, the snap of a good flip phone.” Wolfe smirks at Kat’s comment.

“I’d say this is a much better first meeting than the other day, eh?” she asks, and this prompts him to break out in a full smile, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it.

“I’d say so too Kat. See you around?” He’s suddenly hopeful, that there is a chance of getting to know her.

“Of course,” she says, taking her leave. He can’t help but notice how there’s a certain spring to her step, as though there’s that same feeling lingering in the back of her mind.

When he turns to walk away, he’s keenly aware of how that same bounce is in his step.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the course of a few weeks, they develop a routine. Attend class, chat afterwards, go their separate ways until the next time. It may not be much of a friendship to an outsider, but to Wolfe, it’s all he needs, for the time being.

They learn about each other, bits and pieces at a time – Kat has long since moved out, sharing an apartment with a few other people even though she’d rather not, and that the dentist terrifies her, while Wolfe counters that he still lives with his parents, and that fire is his particular flavor of fear.

Time marches on, and as their friendship grows to include more than half-hour chit-chats, the leaves start to change color, becoming the same shade as Kat’s hair. With the onset of autumn comes the onset of early midterms, the likes of which includes one put out by everyone’s favorite professor, Schmidt.

In a move that surprises both of them, they agree to work together, as it is a group project, and they wind up at Wolfe’s house, on one of the rare nights neither of his parents are home.

Kat is sitting cross-legged on the bed, a laptop in the empty space beside her, while Wolfe is sprawled out on the couch, his laptop perched far more precariously and in danger of falling at any moment.

The silence here is comfortable, carried on by a gurgling filter in a fish tank and the occasional bit of clicking from computer keys.

Wolfe is the first to close his laptop, setting it down on the couch. He breaths deeply through his nose, ending with, “Fuck Freud.”

Kat glances over, not saying anything.

“I mean, this guy was a dick, and Schmidt probably worships the ground he walked on. I’m starting to think this whole project is just to stoke the fires of whatever little ego Schmidt has left, given how many times he’s droned on and on about how great the guy was.”

“You might be right, but it’s what, the last semester for both of us? Might as well just suck it up and at least try to pass with a C.”

Wolfe scoffs, but opens up his laptop again, resuming his typing.

“I think you just hate Freud so much because he’d probably hate people like you,” says Kat, gesturing to a small flag stuck in the pencil holder on Wolfe’s desk.

“Nah, my being ace actually thrills me when I think about all the people who would be up in arms over people not experiencing any sexual attraction for any reason because they can’t imagine it for themselves. What I hate is how Schmidt literally will not shut up about him. Not that I’ve ever paid much attention in class, but…” he trails off, not quite sure where he was going with it.

“I get that, I think. Like how people are always saying bi people are faking it, or are just doing it for attention, or how we have to pick a side.”

Wolfe nods in agreement at this.

The pair lapses in to a comfortable silence, making steady progress on the project.

“Hey Mulder, look at this.”

Wolfe stops cold. That feeling has come up, quivering in the way a hunting dog does when it’s found the prey for its handler. “Kat, what did you say?”

“Hey Wolfe, look at this.”

He takes a few seconds to weight the benefits of getting in to a potential argument over what Kat had just said, but spares risking his friendship over something that could have very well been so trivial.

But deep down, he knows it’s not, and continues to repeat _Mulder_ to himself over and over, until it becomes the sole object of his obsession. In some way, he knows that’s what the feeling is responding to, that being called “Mulder” is correct, he can’t figure out _how_. The thought of reincarnation drifts across his mind for a moment, but like aliens, he tells himself it’s all fake, that’s it not possible.

_But you know it to be the truth_, some small part of him says.

“Wolfe?” asks Kat. “You’re spacing out a bit there.”

“Oh uh, sorry,” he replies, setting his laptop down and moving over to the bed, where Kat is currently deep delving on the Internet, trying to explain something she found that could be very helpful to the project, but he is not paying attention in any capacity, instead mentally running through any thing he’s read over the years on past lives and reincarnation.

That feeling is happy, he realizes, the mental exercises it’s being put through, something it’s craved for so long and has yet to be fed in any real capacity.

Kat finishes, looking at him expectantly. “Ground control to Major Tom?”

He doesn’t respond.

“If you’re this out of focus maybe we should stop, and I can go, and we can pick this up another time. Okay?”

He waves a hand, entirely dismissive of Kat trying to talk to him.

She takes this as her cue to leave, mumbling something or other, and before long he’s alone.

\-----

It takes less than a week for him to start thinking of himself as Mulder. He’s shed thinking of himself as Wolfe (or anything forbid, _Damian_); with it comes a newfound vigor and zest for life. He starts to skip class, accidental at first, in favor of spending as much time as possible at any library, reading over books and articles and joining message boards.

This, however, doesn’t bring him any closer to finding out who Mulder – he – is. All he has to work of is a last name, and there are no solid leads for any of it.

He vents his frustrations about it to Kat one night, after realizing there was no way he was going to be able to focus on the project, deadlines be damned. With it, he senses himself slipping back to how he was a decade ago – wholeheartedly believing the impossible and how he didn’t care if his peers thought he was ‘weird’ or ‘spooky’ for ramblings on about theories about government conspiracies or how Mothman was definitely real.

“We haven’t talked much about our childhoods, have we?” he asks as a way of breaking the ice for this particular topic.

He can’t see her, but he knows Kat is giving him a look. There’s a small sigh – she seems to do that a lot – and the click of a laptop closing. He hears her turn to face him, where he’s sprawled on the couch, looking at the ceiling, a neutral look on his face.

“I suppose we haven’t.”

“We know the basics, like our fears, but it seems that most of the meat of a person is formed in their younger years. Don’t you agree, Scully?”

His heart skips a beat, his blood runs cold. Unlike whatever games Kat had been playing at before, he definitely heard himself say “Scully” and wouldn’t deny it if she asked.

“Did you just call me ‘Scully’?”

A hesitant, “Yes.”

He turns to look at her, and there’s an expression across her face, one he can’t quite place, but it reminds him of how it felt when he was first called Mulder. Bit and pieces of memories being dredged up, slow enough to not overwhelm the merging of the old and the new. Kat shakes her head.

“It just sounded familiar. I think that was a sportscaster or something?”

“Or something.” But he doesn’t say that out loud. He needs to keep the weird and wonderful at a minimum tonight, enough to keep Scully, no, Kat, listening. Needs to keep her form running away. That feeling stirs, agreement in that thought.

“Like I was saying, about childhoods. I was weird as hell, and possibly more anxiety-ridden than I am now. Or I was weird as hell, and the anxiety happened after I got the weird knocked out of me. No more Jersey Devil for me.”

Kat has an eyebrow raised at him, allowing him to continue, but highly dubious of where this conversation will be going.

“What I also haven’t told you is that there’s always been this feeling, that I should be searching for something, and over the years I’ve gotten close to finding out what it was, but it’s never been close enough. I think the closest it ever came was last week when you called me Mulder. And I think you have that same feeling, from back when you said you noticed me in a crowd, even if I’m fairly generic looking. Not to mention when I called you Scully just a few minutes ago.”

Kat’s face is as blank as she can make it, eyebrow gone back to its usual place, but he can see a flicker in her eyes, one that tells him he’s right even if she’s going to keep denying it.

“I think what I’m getting at is that in a past life I was called Mulder, and we knew each other. Somehow.”

Kat blinks, and laughs at him like this is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “If such a thing as past lives existed, there’d surely be actual scientific evidence to back it up.”

He’s hurt at this, Kat’s words cutting deeper than he thought they would have. Maybe he was wrong about her, thinking that she’s whoever this Scully was. Is. It doesn’t matter to him at this point, bringing up the notion that _Hey, I think we’re reincarnated and knew each other in a past life. Wanna talk about it?_

“Must be the stress of this project and going down way too many rabbit holes for it.” He closes his eyes, faking a sigh, when he’s really trying to hold back a sob. Is it him, or the feeling, that’s causing it? He doesn’t know, and he lets himself spiral, becoming lost.

It isn’t until there’s a hand placed gently on his shoulder, and a shift of weight on the couch, that he realizes Kat is sitting there as best she can, trying to comfort him.

He is crying now, and sure, he usually only reserves that for people he’s known for more than a few months, but he lets it happen.

“Hey, it’s okay. We all have breakdowns once in a while.”

He sniffles, shifting so that he’s sitting up.

“You’re probably right. All stress, a lack of good sleep. The usual.” He lets out a stiff laugh. “And only doing gen eds too, I wonder how bad I’ll be when it comes time for when I transfer to finish getting a degree.”

Kat smiles at him, pleased to see he’s finally realizing that this is all just in the normal course of things brought about stress and pushing yourself too much.

“What about your childhood,” he asks, looping it back to what he was originally going on about, and she tells him that it was nothing remarkable. Whatever it takes to get Wolfe back on track, and maybe see about seeing a specialist, if taking only a few courses is causing reactions that are as strong as this.

She fails to mention that same feeling has woken up inside of her for real this time, and not just in the strange dreams she’s dismissed over the years.

The absolute certain knowledge that they’re real and having actually happened terrifies her.


	4. Chapter 4

The drive back to her apartment could have ended up being far worse for her if there had been any other cars on the road. Thankfully for Kat, there were none, and she was able to finish having a massive freak out in the comfort of her own room, roommates blissfully unaware that she was having, quite possibly, the worst time of her life.

His voice replays over and over in her head, that one simple phrase of “Don’t you agree, Scully?” breaking down dammed up thoughts that had been there for so long that she had simply chosen to ignore. This was an actual science only household, no place for pseudoscience, and this did fall under that label.

But it is real, and she knows it, and she hates it.

Disjointed memories, faint recollections from decades past come to the surface, and she allows them to stay instead of shoving them away, letting her brain figure out where to sort the old since it’s finally being given a chance.

Years ago she had figured out something was Not Quite Right, and had dug in to it to find out why. After a point she wanted to stop, but it was too late, the horror of realizing she wasn’t fully herself was there, and there was no backing out.

The best she could do from that point on was box up the rest and lean fully in to being Kat West. It had worked, for a while, but the creeping doubt this was somehow punishment from God was always there, making it so, so hard to keep up with this persona.

That first day of her last semester, and she had hung around outside the room for far too long, waiting until the professor had entered, so she would lessen her chances of running in to Mulder, and that had failed.

Whatever had brought them together in the last life clearly wanted to keep them together in this one, college had clearly worked in that force’s favor.

_Fuck you God_, is what she thinks, but there is no oomph behind it. It’s as hollow and empty as she feels right now, her world completely and utterly shattered. That chance to start anew was wholly gone.

She rolls on to her back, looking up that blank, off-white ceiling, and mutters, “I am Dana Scully and Fox Mulder has once again, ruined my life.”

\-----

Work, as it always does, some times gets in the way of the life people actually want to live, and for Mulder, this is one of those times. He’s doing his work, filing papers for the washed-up lawyer from New York, when there’s a knock at the door.

This isn’t part of his job, letting Mr. Barba know when people are here, but he calls the person knocking in anyways.

“Is Barba here?” asks an older gentlemen. Something about him says he’s retired, but he carries that air of having been an authority figure at one point in his life. Military or police, maybe?

“I’ll have to ask who you are first?” Mulder squints, this man looks familiar in a way he can’t quite place.

“Munch,” says the man, just as Barba comes out of his office.

Mulder gives no regard to the men greeting each other, he’s too preoccupied with a steady drip of memories from long ago.

There’s something about gunmen, screaming on the floor in a drug-induced panic, and being questioned by the man standing near him, but Much is much younger in this memory.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog so he can go back to the present day, and there’s a headache starting to form right behind his eyes.

Barba and Munch have since left, so he sits, head in his hands, trying to make meaning or sense of any of this.

“Why now?” he asks to no one.

“Why now?” he asks again as he’s getting in to his car.

“Why now?” he asks as stalls outside of his parent’s house, letting the car sit idle before grabbing his phone.

He flips it open, finds Kat’s number, and calls it, hoping she’ll pick up. 

She does.

Seconds later he’s making a U-turn, heading towards the area where she lives.

\-----

There’s a certain amount of tense energy to the air that’s so thick it could be cut with a knife and served on a platter.

Mulder keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

“You wouldn’t have agreed to talk to me if you hadn’t known something,” he says. His voice is on the verge of breaking. There’s answers to this, that feeling, and he wants them. Maybe then he can finally be at peace.

“I know, Mulder.”

That alone proves it, that she knows what he was talking about that night in his room.

“Why are we back Scully? Why can’t I remember more?”

The frustration in his voice is apparent. It’s the same frustration as before, when they would get a case, and something would not go in his favor, and he’d have to scramble to get it back together again.

“I don’t know. I… I remember most of it. I think it might have to do with figuring it out years ago, but…”

Mulder slams the breaks on the car, having enough sense to throw on the hazards for good measure. He turns to Scully, face breaking in to rage and sadness.

“I spend my whole life _plagued_ by this feeling that something’s wrong, that I’m not right, toying briefly with the idea of reincarnation when I was younger, only to be beat up for it, and only getting a solid lead when I run in to you again, and here you are, saying to my face that you’ve figured it out _years_ ago? And in all that time, you’ve never bothered seeking me out?”

The rage is gone, his voice has cracked, and he’s seconds away from having a breakdown.

“I couldn’t, Mulder. I spent all of my life as Scully trying to find the science behind everything, and here I am again, all of that science thrown right out the window. I couldn’t deal with the thought of the world as I knew it not being as clear-cut as it once was. So I denied it, allowing myself to become Kat. It was the only way I could keep sane.” There’s a certain tremble to her voice, and Mulder feels a twinge of sadness for her.

They sit, allowing themselves to stew on their thoughts, when Mulder breaks the silence by asking, “You say you remember more than me. Do you know how we died?”

He isn’t sure if he hears the “No” Scully whispers before the car is slammed in to from behind, sending it ramming forward in to the trees.


	5. Chapter 5

Retired.

That’s what he told himself, back in 1995, that he was done with the Bureau, when he had left shortly after Mulder and Scully’s deaths.

It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Despite doing everything in his power, Mulder and Scully, the two agents he told himself he wouldn’t get attached to, had kept popping in to his life. He did, in part, feel responsible for their deaths, as he had sent them out on the case, but that couldn’t explain how he had received a call from an unknown years after any contact with anyone had ceased.

“Your agents have turned up. We’re positive it’s them.” _Click_.

Skinner finds himself barreling down the highway, cursing anyone he can think of, but he finds himself cursing out Mulder and Scully the most.

They could have stayed dead, but he had seen contents of a few of the x files, and some people had the occasional habit of turning up later, years down the line, younger, and in new bodies.

He stops his cursing to focus on driving; the ride to Ohio isn’t a short one, and he needs to keep his cool for if this actually Mulder and Scully.

\-----

“I get the distinct feeling,” says Mulder, groaning, “That we’ve been in situations like this far too many times.”

He can hear Scully’s breathing over the steady beep of hospital machines, but she doesn’t respond.

The car crash had been caused by a drunk driver. The driver of the other car had died upon impact, Mulder had gotten out with a few minor cuts and bruises, but Scully hadn’t fared that well, the most major thing being a broken right arm. The doctors wanted to keep her overnight, just to make sure there was nothing else wrong.

He lets himself sink back in to the chair, wincing slightly.

Scully shuffles slightly so she can prop herself a bit. Whatever pain she’s feeling, she doesn’t let show.

“The last time I can remember being in a hospital, I nearly died. Hell, I was there after being found, in a coma. You were there soon after I woke up. Do you remember that?”

Mulder wants to say yes, that he does, but he doesn’t. His memories are foggy at best, not nearly as complete as Scully’s.

“I kind of figured. You gave me my necklace back, a gold cross.”

That gold cross glints in his mind; the phantom weight of it around his neck. Then there’s that deep, profound pain of thinking you’ve lost someone close to you, being angry when no one can tell you anything. His breathing becomes ragged, and Scully’s concern for him is evident.

“Mulder…”

“Just… give me a minute.” He lets this memory merge happen, eyes closed tight as each new thing comes back to him.

He was so lost before, and after barely knowing her for a little bit more than a year. He can’t imagine going through that again.

“Now I know why you don’t like dentist’s office much. Too much like being abducted.”

“Or hospitals, but there’s no one chasing either of us this this time.” Scully’s brow furrows. “I hope.”

She lets herself settle back in to the bed, trying to not jostle her broken arm too much.

The combination of Scully’s breathing as she starts to fall asleep and the sounds from hospital machines are threatening to send Mulder asleep as well, but the sound of hurried footsteps down the hall dashes any chances of that.

He sees Scully snap to attention, once again propping herself up.

“Skinner,” she says to Mulder as an older man walks through the door, face flushed and possibly shaking in anger or relief.

\-----

He arrives in the middle of the night, flashing a not-so-legal FBI badge to make his way to the ward where Mulder and Scully are. Emergency use only, the makers of it had told him, and this did qualify as one of those emergencies.

He doesn’t bother to knock; he can’t recall a time he did when they were alive the first time, opting to go right in.

His heart drops at what he sees before him. There’s no doubt it’s those two, they’re just younger.

Mulder is the first to say anything. “And who are you?”

Scully shoots him a look. “I just told you. Skinner. Our boss from… before.”

“She’s right Mulder. Although I will say I’m retired now, and probably have about fifteen minutes before someone realizes this badge-“ he gestures to a pocket on his coat “-is fake. So we need to go, _now_.”

Mulder gives Skinner a look, as if he doesn’t quite believe him. Scully, however, is clearly on board with this, but a look of doubt flashes across her face. “The doctors wanted me to stay overnight, for monitoring.”

“I have an idea,” says Skinner, before slipping out the door. He makes his way to the nearest nurse’s station, talking fast and throwing as much official sounding jargon as he can manage without sound too over the top. Before long, he’s able to get Scully discharged, and the pair are following along behind him.

He’s fairly certain they only remember to breathe again once they’ve been in his car for a few minutes, miles of road already between them and the hospital.

Whatever it is he wants to say can’t come forth. There’s too many decades of hatred and depression and anger bubbling to the surface. There is no direction to it, it’s a pot waiting to boil over.

He glances in the rearview; Scully is leaning against Mulder, and Mulder is leaning against the window, staring out at the passing night sky. To him, they look like teenagers, confused and more scared than either of them would like to admit.

“How did we die?”

The question catches him off guard. It evidently catches Scully off guard too, for she moves away from Mulder, to look at him in surprise.

“That would be better to answer when we’re not driving. It’s complicated.” He leaves it at that, but he can see a million questions dancing in Mulder’s eyes.

Scully settles back against Mulder, and Mulder leans back against the seat. Before long they’re both sleeping, and Skinner is more relieved about that than he’d care to admit.

He worried for them in the past, and now that they were younger (even if it wasn’t by much), he worried for them more. 

As he drives, he formulates best how to bring up their death, and the fact it is an x file, something that would no doubt delight Mulder, but would send Scully in to one of her quiet, brooding moods.

Hours later, when the sky lightens to steel, he turns earlier than he wants. He can’t handle this alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Scully’s woken by Mulder’s stirring, a response to Skinner shutting off the car and opening his door. She can’t help but think of him as _old_, even though if she hadn’t died, there wouldn’t have been that much of an age difference. She doesn’t think too much on it, as it starts to hurt her brain. She waits for Mulder to get out, then shuffles herself out.

The three of them are standing in what could pass for a long-forgotten field, if it weren’t for the house just a few yards away. It’s old, but looks sturdy enough. Every window is shuttered, and there’s nothing to suggest that anyone lives here.

However, there’s a series of locks that open as soon as Skinner knocks on the door. Scully counts the sounds for thirteen before she gives up, stifling a yawn and wishing Skinner had managed to snag some painkillers from the hospital.

She’s distracted from the returning pain when the door is flung open, showing two men standing there, looking at the trio suspiciously.

“Where’s Frohike?” she asks before she realizes what she’s doing. If there was a way to get her past fully integrated in to her current self, then by God she was going to do it so things like this didn’t keep happening.

The two men, Langly and Byers, exchange a look.

“Skinner should have told you before getting here, but he died a few years back.” 

“Heart attack,” adds Langly.

“I would have told them, but they needed the rest, so I let them sleep. Is that a crime, gentlemen?”

Byers shuffles his feet, but Langly takes charge, ushering them inside.

There is a lack of tech, something Scully had gotten so used to the first time she had met the Gunmen.

She looks over at Mulder, who’s face is contorted in confusion. It goes away when he has that _a-ha!_ Moment, and he looks quite pleased with himself for knowing who these people are without having to ask anyone.

The five of them sit around the table in what Scully can only guess at being the kitchen, and it’s Mulder who launches right in to it.

“I’ll ask you, since Skinner didn’t want to give an answer: How did we die?”

Glances are exchanged between Skinner, Langly, and Byers, and it’s Byers who speaks.

“You were shot.”

Quick and straight to the point; it should be effective, but Scully sees Mulder’s jaw tensing. Simple answers are never enough for him.

“By who? When? Where? I need more information than that!” He’s gone from talking in an even manner to practically yelling, distressed at the lack of answers and lack of memory about the whole thing.

Instinctively, Scully places her good hand on Mulder’s arm, and he looks at her, enough to sit back down, but he’s still on the edge.

“I’d like to say that we don’t know who and that this case has gone cold but… Not telling you the full truth is not what you need right now, but we can’t also withhold it from you. Before you died, I received word from someone that you two would be killed. Mulder, it was you I made contact with over the radio, to warn you, but from what evidence could be gathered, at that point it would have been too late.” The guilt is on Skinner’s face like he’s an open book, but Mulder and Scully know that he isn’t the one who did the killing.

“That still tells me nothing,” grumbles Mulder, who has gotten up and is now pacing the room.

Scully knows how often he’s done this before, how it’s not a healthy behavior, how it never leads to anywhere good.

\-----

Mulder can’t help but watch Skinner as he becomes awash in guilt, but something is nagging at the back of his mind. Disjointedly, he remembers operating a radio, a cackled voice coming over, him responding and rushing outside.

He stands up, starts pacing.

He can hear the first gunshot, as clear as if it had just happened. A scream of “Scully!” that sounds far too angry, and there’s so much blood, her lifeless body falling on the ground. Too many emotions to process, and a second gunshot, this time on him.

There’s not enough there, and connecting the dots in the only way he can leads to one conclusion.

He killed Scully, and then killed himself.

He doesn’t think he would have hated her enough in the past to have done such a thing, but he can’t remember enough of himself to say that with any amount of certainty.

Mulder starts to breath faster, heart skipping beats as he locks on to this singular idea.

_I killed us, why didn’t Skinner say anything, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t_.

Before he knows it he’s facing Skinner, looking like an animal caught in a trap, voice cracking a thousand times over, saying, “You could have just said what I had done outright,”

Skinner looks confused at his statement. “I have no idea what you’re talking about-“

“You didn’t want to tell us because I killed Scully, and then killed myself.” All he can see is red, and he spins on his heels, fully intent on getting out of the room to give himself time to process his emotions.

But he can’t find the exit, he can’t find anything, his anxiety is mounting, and he doesn’t know what to _do_.

He can hear the others moving, they’re talking to him, but it’s all garbled nonsense that fades to a high-pitched inky blackness.

\-----

With a little help from Skinner, Langly and Byers get the passed-out Mulder situated on a couch.

Scully is still sitting at the kitchen table, trying to parse out what’s happened so far. Her memory may be better than Mulder’s, but the only thing that’s coming back to her from this time is a quick flash of Mulder saying something, a hot flash of pain, and then nothing.

Nothing leading up to it, and obviously there’s nothing after it.

Skinner, Langly, and Byers join her again at the table.

“This is why I wanted to refrain from telling you too much too fast, these two were afraid something like this would happen. At least you seem to not be jumping to conclusions like Mulder there,” says Skinner, gesturing vaguely towards the room where Mulder currently is.

“I can say I figured out some of this past life stuff a long time ago, so there was an easier time transitioning in to accepting it fully. Mulder’s only had a few months at most,” is Scully’s reply.

“You were always so logical Scully, why the change?”

“Mulder must’ve finally gotten to me.”

“About time too,” interjects Langly. Byers says nothing.

“Skinner, you were saying something about the case not having gone cold?”

“Right. Officially, your case is listed as a x file, but that department no longer exists within any capacity. It’s entire existence has been scrubbed clean, and most of those files have been destroyed or locked away in some deep basement.

“I’ve been retired since ’95, but managed to keep a few of the files, including the one about your death, and had kept up minimal contact with a few people to see if there was anything that could be gathered. It was mostly these two, but there were some others.”

“You mean Frohike,” says Scully. Not exactly cold, but he was always a bit too forward for her liking.

“Him, and some other nameless people. There were leads, similar cases, but nothing ever turned up. Not until, of course, I received a call from someone about my agents being alive. I’m hoping that if you two recover enough memories about your deaths, we can use it to catch our killer.”

Skinner sounds far too hopeful about solving a case for a man that claims to have been retired for twenty-four years, Scully decides, but she doesn’t tell him this.

Instead she leaves the kitchen, meandering to where Mulder is on the couch, fast asleep. She sits next to him as best she can. 

There’s a brief moment where she thinks he could have killed him, the memory certainly serves up to what he’s said, but she knows that’s not right.

Mulder cared too much about her in the past life.


End file.
